


Taming Winter

by Moons_of_Avalon



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Dubious Consent, Frottage, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, pre-catws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4840130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moons_of_Avalon/pseuds/Moons_of_Avalon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Brock Rumlow, newly initiated into the ranks of HYDRA, is enlisted to carry out one of the tasks that the higher ranks don't like to admit has to take place: grooming the Winter Soldier once his mission is completed. But behind the scenes, the soldier couldn't be farther from the ruthless animal that he is when he's unleashed onto the field.</p><p>There's something about that shy compliance that Brock can't help but want to use to his advantage...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taming Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Приручая зиму](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6273451) by [Schwesterchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwesterchen/pseuds/Schwesterchen)



 

“You want me to _what_?”

Brock Rumlow isn’t the first new recruit to raise an eyebrow at being asked to assist with the Asset’s personal hygiene. It’s not the kind of thing you think about. In the eyes of Hydra and its members, the soldier is a weapon, an object, not a person who needs to be assisted with things like shaving and showering. 

“I want you to follow the order you’ve just been given,” his commanding officer hisses, trying to avoid drawing attention. “Now shut up and come with me.”

Brock bites the inside of his cheek, glaring daggers at the back of the senior agent’s neck as he follows him down the hall to the room where the Asset is being kept. “Don’t remember hearing about this while I was training. Must’ve skipped over that subsection in the protocol manual,” he mutters, loud enough to earn him a warning look. 

He’ll learn later on that there actually is no official protocol for grooming the Asset. Repairing, yes, but grooming? Definitely not the sort of thing Hydra’s concerned about… However, in practice, the need can’t be ignored for very long: he gets too scruffy and his mask doesn’t fit right right, too dirty and his arm can start to malfunction, and there’s only so long you can pretend to not be bothered by the smell of drying blood and sweat before it starts to get under your skin. 

So it’s become an unspoken rule that some youngblood or another gets picked each time to clean up the mess the asset becomes after every mission. No one of higher rank will bother, and anyone who’s gone through the experience knows better than to volunteer for the job. After all, it’s not always an option to keep him strapped down, and the way he reacts to being touched varies like the weather. Some days he’s indifferent, others he recoils from it. Only once did he kill an agent, sinking a pair of scissors into the man’s neck as he growled like an animal. They essentially gave up on cutting his hair after that, just wasn’t worth the trouble. But that’s not the sort of thing you tell one of the new kids when you want them to just get the job done.

When they enter the room—bathroom to be specific—the Asset’s there, still in full uniform aside from the his mask. It’s strange to see him like that, his metal arm deactivated and fixed with a magnet to the chair he’s sitting in, his eyes blank as he stares off into space. It’s the stare that’s really unnerving. It shouldn’t be possible to look so human, and yet so inhuman at the same time.

Brock glances at his commanding officer just before a bucket of supplies is shoved into his hand. A cursory look reveals that there’s a toothbrush, soap, a razor, and even oil, presumably for the metal arm once it’s been cleaned. “I’m still waiting for someone to jump out and tell me that this is some kind of prank,” he sighs.

“Not a prank,” comes the curt reply. “We do this after every mission.”

“The world’s deadliest assassin honestly needs someone to brush his teeth for him?”

“The world’s deadliest assassin has more important things to be programmed with than how to brush his teeth.”

Brock just rolls his eyes. There’s no way to respond to that. It makes sense when you think about it, he just really wishes he didn’t have to think about it. “Am I expected to bathe with him too?” he asks, nodding to the provided shower. “We can’t just hose him down or something?”

“From what I’ve heard, he didn’t react well to that the last time they tried it,” the older man sighs. “Keeping him calm is your best bet.” He doesn’t say ‘your best bet for staying alive’, but the implication is unquestionably there. “Once you’ve finished here, just put him in the chair again and contact me. Someone will come and get him.”

“Yes, sir,” Brock replies, resigned now. The door shuts after a few moments, and then he’s alone with the asset. The most dangerous weapon in the world, staring at a blank wall and evidently completely unaware than an entire conversation, about him, has just taken place not ten feet away. Brock moves closer, testing with each step whether or not the soldier will respond to him. 

Nothing. 

Perfectly still, blank eyes. Even his breathing is barely noticeable. There’s something so deeply wrong with the image.

“Soldier…” Brock finally mutters, still with about a meter between him and the chair.An illusion of safety. Only then does a switch seem to flip inside the otherwise stoic man, a light winking his his eyes as he registers that there’s another person in the room, and his head turns to look up. 

No words. No expression. Just eternal patience and expectancy. Brock flexes his shoulders under the weight of it. 

“I’m here to clean you up,” he explains, stepping closer again and slowly reaching out to rest his hand on the button that turns the magnet on and off, just out of the soldier’s reach on the back of the chair. Not that he’d try to turn it off himself. Even now, the only movement he’s made is to tilt his head up a little more to keep his eyes on Brock’s face. The hand coming towards him appears to not concern him at all. 

“You’re going to behave, right?” 

A slow nod. 

Brock guesses that he’s lucked out and gotten the man on an agreeable day, and switches off the magnet. Perhaps this wouldn’t be nearly so troublesome as he’d expected. 

“Stand and undress,” he orders, heading to the shower to turn it on and placing the bucket down nearby. He hears the soldier stand behind him and glances of his shoulder to monitor the movement. He’s not being stared at anymore, which is a relief, but the man’s attention has shifted to his metal arm, hanging useless at his side. This seems to take a moment to process before he begins to undo the straps on his jacket, but one-handed it’s slow work. Brock’s not willing to wait around.

“For fuck’s sake…” he hisses, moving closer and shoving the soldier’s hand away.

It never registers that it could have been the last move he ever made.

He begins to work on the straps…too many straps…who the fuck designed this godforsaken uniform?! And he’s met with no resistance as the jacket falls to the floor, followed by the undershirt, the gloves, and the belt. And then he realizes that his hands are on the button of the soldier’s pants—fingers already slipped into the waistband and pressing against solid abdominals—and he freezes.

It’s not as if he’s never seen another man naked. After years of locker rooms and safe houses and confining tents out in the field, he’s seen his fair share. 

And it’s not as if he’s never seen _this_ man naked. Clothes don’t do well in cryofreeze, so the soldier’s always stripped down before he goes in and usually stays that way for a couple hours after he comes out while the technicians and doctors check him over.

There’s just something about having to _undress_ another man, a stranger, that gives him pause.

He glances up, finding that the soldier’s gaze is on him again. They’re the same height, so there eyes are perfectly level as they meet. Brock doesn’t know what he’s looking for in those ice blue eyes, but he searches anyway and, for several seconds, there’s nothing but the sound of steady breathing. He doesn’t find anything, except perhaps the tiniest glimmer of confusion. _Why did you stop? Why are you staring at me?_  

Maybe he’s just projecting.

Shaking himself, he stops thinking about the absurdity of what he’s been asked to do and just does it. Soon enough, the soldier’s standing naked in front of him as Brock straightens up and steps back, searching those eyes again. There’s neither shame nor pride showing in them, the soldier is apparently as indifferent to being unclothed as he is to being clothed.

For all that Brock can tell, he may not even know the difference.

“Get in the shower,” he orders, watching for a moment to make sure the order is followed before he picks up the discarded clothes from the floor and throws them over the back of the chair. His own uniform pants are waterproof, he’s not concerned about them, but the tank top his has on isn’t, so after a moment’s pause he pulls it off and deposits it with the rest. If the soldier isn’t worried about his own nudity, he sure as hell isn’t going to be worried about someone else’s.

Turning around, Brock pauses when he sees that the soldier’s pressed against the shower wall, his eyes fixed on the stream of water that he seems to be doing his very best to avoid.

Well that’s odd…

But soon enough Brock registers that there’s no steam rising in the shower and it clicks. The water’s too cold. And apparently the soldier wants to avoid cold water. 

He wants.

It’s almost a relief. 

Brock doesn’t apologize as he fiddles with the tap until the water’s at a reasonable temperature, but looks up, startled, when he hears a sigh. There’s no real emotion behind the sound, but the soldier’s no longer pressed against the wall, stray water droplets and steam now able to find purchase on his skin. He’s staring again too, and this time, Brock’s positive that he’s not imagining the glint in the man’s eyes. Something like contentment… He shakes it off.

It’s easy enough to order the Asset to stand under the water, though he’s vaguely unnerved by the way the soldier closes his eyes and tips his head. Maybe the action itself is functional, getting more of him wet, but there’s an ease to the motion, a change from the soldier’s usual stiffness outside the field. As if he’s enjoying the hot water rolling down his body. But if that is what’s happening, Brock can hardly blame him. Even if a weapon isn’t supposed to enjoy anything, there’s nothing quite like a hot shower after a long day.

It all somehow becomes less odd as time passes. Brock scrubs down the soldier’s metal arm, surprised by the weight of it in his hand as he turns and bends it to make sure none of the joints have any dirt left caked in them, then moves to washing the man’s flesh, watching as the pure white soap turns a dusty color as it gathers god-knows-what sort of filth in its slide across skin. He doesn’t go past the man’s waist at first, letting the washcloth drop and slap rudely against the tiles as he shifts his attention to the Asset’s hair, gathering soap on his hands before starting to work it into the man’s scalp. 

The two of them are close now, and Brock only registers just how close when he realizes that he can see individual droplets of water hanging from the soldier’s eyelashes. Long, dark eyelashes, sharply contrasting those pale eyes, which are still relentlessly fixed on him. Of its own accord, the motion of Brock’s hand changes from scrubbing to raking the dark hair away from the Asset’s face, his nails scrapping more roughly against the man’s scalp. A sharp tug on the hair gets the man to tip his head slightly, but his eyes never leave Brock’s face. There’s something expectant there yet again, like he’s waiting for Brock to say something, do something, and, for some reason he can't understand, it hasn’t happened yet. Brock ignores that for now. It’s been too quiet.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” he mutters, tightening his grip on the man’s hair again and watching for a reaction. There’s none. “I ordered you to get in the shower, and you did, but you didn't let yourself get touched by the water. Why?”

There’s a pause, and if Brock squints he can swear that he sees surprise in the soldier’s face. Then the reply comes, in a voice that’s harsh and low. Disused. “You did not order me to get under the water, sir.”

Brock raises an eyebrow. “I suppose I didn’t, but this isn’t a very big shower. To be in it, as you were ordered, and not get wet took some effort, didn’t it?” The soldier tries to nod, but Brock grips his hair tighter. “Answer me out loud.”

“Yes, sir, it did take effort.”

“So why bother with that effort? Showers are for getting wet after all, no reason to assume that wasn’t my intention for you when I ordered you in.” The silence lasts longer this time, hanging between them. Brock realizes that the soldier doesn’t want to respond, there’s even a reluctancy in his eyes as they shift back and forth between Brock’s own, as if he expects to find more sympathy in one versus the other. “Answer me,” he demands again.

“The water was cold.”

He says it like it’s an admission of guilt, and Brock smirks. He’s aware.

“And if I had ordered you under the water, without changing the temperature, would you have obeyed?”

“Yes, sir.” There’s no hesitation that time, and Brock’s smirk only widens. He had known that the soldier was obedient…but to know that he could demand obedience, even when it caused displeasure…

Well, that was true dominance, wasn’t it?

He remembers that he never finished washing the soldier’s body. He remembers the washcloth lying half-used on the floor, and suddenly it’s like he can’t stop thinking about the fact that the soldier will probably present his body for Brock’s hands, no matter how invasive or uncomfortable the touch.

He follows orders. And Brock can make that into an order.

He rinses the soldier’s hair, being a little less gentle now as he combs through the formerly messy dark waves. The soldier doesn’t mind, doesn’t even act like he knows it’s happening, except for the way he allows his head to shift with the tugging, not bothering to resist.

Good.

“Pick up that washcloth,” he orders, smiling when the other man swiftly drops to his knees to obey. It’s a nice image, the most feared thing on the planet, kneeling at his feet. But what’s even better is the image of that feared thing flinching, just barely but perceptibly freezing for little more than a moment, when Brock pulls off his belt, tossing it so it clatters across the floor. The man looks up, and this time Brock swears there’s resignation in the hunch of those broad shoulders. Obviously, he isn’t the first person to think he can take advantage of the soldier’s willingness to obey. And if the look in the man’s eyes is anything to go by, the ones he can remember haven’t been pleasant experiences. 

He sees the appeal. It’s not often you have someone so completely at your mercy, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. He’s not one of the Asset’s handlers, he doesn’t have full command over the man… 

But more than that, he wants to know if he can evoke a reaction other than fear. It’s like a game, a test of how good he can be. Coax the wild animal to take food from your hand.

The man hasn’t stood up, and Brock can only assume that he expects to be put to work down on his knees. But doing what the soldier expects, mimicking what he’s experienced before, wouldn’t be very interesting, would it? 

“Stand up,” he orders, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as confusion flashes in the soldier’s eyes. But stand he does, thick muscle tensing and releasing as he eases back to his feet, washcloth clutched close to his chest like a child’s favorite blanket. Brock doesn’t hesitate to pull it away and begin to rub soap into it again, watching, amused, as an empty hand closed uncertainly around air before falling back to the soldier’s side. Those eyes are on him again, but Brock meets them easily as he takes one step, and then another, closing the distance between them until there’s barely inches of space. This time, the soldier is the first one to break eye contact, flinching once again and immediately fixing his gaze on Brock’s hand where it’s come to rest on his hip, white foam beginning to glide down his skin from where it bubbles around the cloth. He’s scared, Brock quickly realizes with a foolhardy surge of adrenaline. That’s what makes the game interesting, he supposes: that he could get himself killed by pushing just an inch too far. Wild animals do bite.

“You think I’m going to hurt you,” he murmurs as his hand moves cloth in a slow circle over the soldier’s hip. “That’s happened before, hasn’t it? People have taken advantage of you while they’ve got you alone.” The gentleness he’s forced into his usually rough voice seems to be working, because the blue eyes that lift to look at him are completely unguarded. The fear is still there, but confusion is winning out. How long has it been since the asset was touched with any sort of softness? It’s a question Brock lets float in his mind as he lifts his free hand to rest his fingertips against the man’s full lips, which part instantly in a faint echo of a gasp before Brock’s skin is coated with condensation from his breath, a reminder of the wet warmth being hidden by chapped, uncared for skin. It’s not fear that’s making those eyes go wide now, and Brock chuckles at seeing such and innocent look on a living weapon’s face. “I have no intention of hurting you,” he continues, sliding the washcloth around to the Asset’s lower back which arches with surprising grace at the sudden pressure. “I don’t harm people without good reason, and you did say that you were going to behave, didn’t you?”

The soldier’s nod is awkward in its eagerness, and Brock chuckles softly. This is almost too easy. He tilts his head closer as he works the washcloth over the man’s hips and across his lower belly before drifting down to his thighs. The soldier’s breathing is as steady as ever, but there’s a new intensity in his gaze as he eyes begin to dilate, black blossoming to swallow up that icy blue. 

When Brock finally uses the cloth to cup the soldier’s cock, skimming the length slowly, the man’s knees buckle and Brock, much to his surprise, has to catch him with one arm to keep him upright. It can’t possibly have felt that good—the washcloth isn’t exactly the smoothest material to be rubbing against very delicate skin—but the soldier’s reacting like a teenager being touched for the first time, like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt, leaning heavy against Brock with his teeth sunken into his bottom lip. Brock has to laugh, low and rough, as he repeats the same motion and is rewarded with seeing pretty, flushed pink lips part for a gasp that borders on a whimper. The most dangerous thing in the world, whimpering and trembling in his arms. How could anyone not laugh?

“I take it you’re enjoying that?” he smirks and the asset nods slightly, his face burrowed into Brock’s shoulder like a child as he pants weakly, his hips shifting forward to press into the slow stroking. “This is what you get when you behave for me, so make sure you keep up the good work, soldier.”

The man tries to nod, but Brock doesn’t hesitate to grab his hair again, tugging his head back slowly until his face is no longer hidden. “Look me in the eye and answer me out loud.”

“Yes, sir,” the answer is immediate, eager, but the soldier’s voice is breathy, nothing like the rough growls of foreign words he’s used to hearing slide out from behind that dark muzzle in the field. He’s trying to keep eye contact, to behave, but even that’s difficult for him now, those wide, blue eyes wanting desperately to squeeze shut. Brock takes pity for a moment and drops the wash cloth, letting his bare hand glide smooth and slow over the soldier’s cock.

The sound that escapes the dangerous thing in his arms is not something he could’ve anticipated.

The soldier makes a sound like he’s been shot, low and long, animalistic, growing louder until it breaks off into a sob when Brock pulls his hand away suddenly out of shock. He pushes the soldier against the shower wall, forcing some distance between them so he can get a proper look at the man, just to be sure he’s not actually damaged. But the look on the man’s face is the furthest thing from pain. It’s…if Brock’s being honest for once, it’s fucking beautiful. This man, this weapon of war, is looking at him like he’s seeing the sun for the first time. His wet hair is stuck to his forehead, his bright pink cheeks, even clinging to the plush curve of his lips. Those blue eyes, blown dark, are screaming at him from behind dark lashes. Screaming things he’s never been allowed to voice. He’s not fighting against the hand Brock’s pinning him with, but his whole body is undulating, his hips pushing forward in jerky thrusts that he seems to have almost no control over. Every inch of him is begging, pleading, for more, for completion. It’s better than anything Brock could have conjured up in his mind.

“Who knew that all it took was one little touch to bring the most dangerous weapon in the whole world to its knees?” he purrs, dragging one fingertip slowly up the underside of the asset’s cock and relishing the pathetic whimper it pulls from the man as his slim hips jut forward more eagerly than before. “You want me to get you off, don’t you? You’re not supposed to want a damn thing in this world, but you want my hand on your cock.”

The only answer he gets is a whine, soft and almost shy as the soldier turns his head, eyes squinting like he might cry. Brock could hardly blame him when his length feels so heavy and hot to the touch. It’s been so long since the man’s felt pleasure, his body must be going haywire trying to process this denial. Reaching out, he tips the soldier’s head back to face him and steps closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off the man’s skin. The Winter Soldier, burning hot, perfect irony.

“I’ll take care of you, soldier,” he murmurs as he pulls down the zipper of his pants and brings out his own cock, slotting it against the asset’s and pinning him against the wall as he presses their hips together. He’s aching too, but holds back, and for his trouble he earns the reward of seeing the man’s eyes go wide yet again as he chokes on his own breath. “But you have to be a good soldier and behave with me, understood?”

“Yes! Yes, sir!” the asset begs, barely more than a whisper. His free, flesh hand grips onto Brock’s arm, nails breaking the skin as he nods furiously, little, needy sounds that might just be an attempt at the word ‘please’ slipping out. 

It’s too perfect an image, Brock can’t resist.

His lips crash against that plaint mouth as he begins to rut against the soldier, tongue eagerly pressing forward to swallow each of the moans that emerge from the asset’s throat. Greedy. Insatiable. He growls as he sinks his teeth into the asset’s lip, no longer bothering to be gentle because he knows he’s got the man exactly where he wants him. The asset puts up no fight but cries out, voice as sweet as Brock's ever heard it. He’s pent up, unaccustomed to pleasure and teased to the point of pain, and comes just moments later, nails ripping at Brock’s chest as he moans. 

Brock barely notices, too focused on pushing harder, faster against the soldier’s smooth skin, slicked with his release.

By the time he comes, sucking on the asset’s lip to muffle his groan, the man’s shaking weakly in his arms. He’s overstimulated, being stroked past the point of completion will do that to a guy, but he looks anything but displeased. He’s curled up in Brock’s arms, as much as possible while still standing, staring off into nothing with hazy eyes as little whimpers brush against Brock’s mouth.

There’s a few moments of near silence as they catch their breath before Brock chuckles roughly, nipping the asset’s now bruised lip once more before pulling back. In response the asset shifts forward, as if to chase the contact, before remembering himself and shying away. His head is ducked, but Brock can still see his eyes, shifting nervously now. He wanted. He wasn’t supposed to want. And he certainly wasn’t supposed to get what he wanted.

“Don’t hide your face from me,” Brock orders, his hands resting on the man’s waist as he waits for the asset to raise his head. When he finally does, the eyes that meet his are those of a child: confused, nervous, seeking validation. Brock gives it.

“When we’re alone, and you’ve been good, I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, leaning close again to let his mouth ghost against the other man’s, pulling a weak shiver out of him. “It’s alright to want as long as you’re wanting me, understood?”

The asset nods. “Yes, sir.” As beautifully compliant as ever.

 

* * *

 

No one says anything about the hickey on the asset’s lip once Brock’s finished with him. In fact, no one seems to be aware that anything at all had happened between them. That is, until the next mission.

They’ve just returned and they’re still in the van, Brock sitting opposite the asset, who’s strapped into his restraints. He hasn’t said a word, but his eyes have been fixed on Brock the entire ride and everyone’s noticed. They’re shifting in their seats, glancing out of the corner of their eyes at each other, trying to pretend they haven’t. Brock just smirks. Smug. He deserves to be, after figuring out a ticket to the top that everyone else has misused. Once they arrive back at base, he waits while everyone else files out, holding the soldier’s eye contact the entire time. The man visibly begins to breathe heavier, and Brock swears there’s a blush building up underneath the grit caked on his skin. 

“Once he’s given his mission report, I’ll clean him up,” Brock smiles at his C.O. when he comes to collect the asset. Even the veteran agent can’t hide his surprise, cocking an eyebrow as he watches Brock stand nonchalantly.

“So I take it things weren’t nearly so bad as you were expecting them to be?”

“Not at all,” Brock shrugs, glancing back at the asset, who’s still watching him with eager eyes. “He was very good for me.”

The way the soldier’s eyes light up at that is the closest thing to a smile anyone has ever seen on him.

Perfect.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumble at moonsofavalon.tumblr.com!


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